Fourteen fingers
by Anassat
Summary: A short summary for the early life of Marc Lannister, (introduced in my earlier story) how he was cast away so far from King's Landing and how come he never lived in the capitol or never even used the name he had earned in birth. Short. Written (and finished) quickly. Rated Teen just in case - there is a swear word.


On the coast of Weeping Water, east from Winterfell, is a small village named Dreadfort. With a small sronghold surrounded by houses in the middle of the village it quite didn't make a fort, but the name had lived on for centuries. It lives up to its name. It's inhabitants, less than a thousand in number, are all tough, small, live by fishing and sometimes hunting if anyone capable of tracking down pray will go to the woods surrounding the river. On the little docks there they have even smaller fishing boats that caught something, not much – something to eat, something to put aside for winter – but they are happy like they are. The man chosen by the villagers to lead them is Eddard Stark's liege, and he keeps his people alive through the winters and summers.

The place is isolated, surrounded by forest. Not too many people left or came in, marriages between second or first cousins weren't too uncommon, but sometimes someone from another village married in. Almost everyone were even the slightest bit related to each other, and everyone knew each other. However, there was one who differed from the others.

Almost three decades ago, four horsemen had ridden to Dreadfort, their leader carrying something. A fisherman's wife, Viola Stormbay had been picking herbs for herself in the outskirts of the village, in desperate hope of herself having a child – she had never been able to have a child, despite all her prayers, herbs, even some old spells she had read in secret. When she had seen the horsemen, she stood up and was about to retread back into the village. The leader of the men dismounted, walked in front of her and carefully placed the something he was carrying into her arms.

Without saying a word, he turned around and mounted his horse again, the four horsemen turning around and riding back to where they had came from. Viola stood silent, petrified. Even though they had tried to cover themselves, she had seen an insignia from under their dark brown garments and seen the reins of the tired horses – too fine to be from the North. Viola, from the South herself, recognized the men. The lion. Lannisters.

Only when she felt movement and heard a faint whine coming from her arms, she looked down to the bundle the man had given him. From the brown cloth tied tightly, a baby looked at her and tried to grab a string of dark brown hair that had fallen from behind Viola's ear. She gently grabbed the tiny hand, and looked at the little fingers.

And counted seven of them.

Now Marc of house Stormbay, son of Alec and Viola, was one of the fishermen of Dreadfort. He did know he was different, no other man had golden hair and blue eyes like him, he stood taller than the other men, he was smarter and had the skill no other men possessed, handling both a sword and a shield as well as he did a fishing net or a trident. His mother had told him how he was brought by Lannister men. He knew he was a Lannister himself – he taught himself to read for years on his free time and after learning read all the news brought to the stronghold, rode sometimes even to Winterfell to hear the newest happenings from King's Landing and followed every single rumor he heard, deploying eager eyes and ears for him into the capitol.

After not so long, he had dug so deep into the life of Lannisters he knew that Tywin Lannister's first born son, destined to be named Harry, had died, had been a stillborn perhaps, but had never survived one day. Maybe he had ordered his men to kill him, but they hesitated. Maybe he had instructed them to bring him behind the back of the Gods, somewhere where no-one will never find him and he will never find his way back to the capitol.

The Lannister with fourteen fingers.

Now he had Jaime and Cersei, and the halfling Tyrion. Jaime. The official first-born son. The pretty boy. The Kingslayer. Not a fisherman's boy from Dreadfort.

The real first-born had swam in the Weeping Water as a boy, lived in a small town near the docks, sometimes hunt rabbits and some deer, knew where the biggest pikes laid in wait, knew how to fix and clean a fishing net, had forged his very own trident.

The official first-born walked around in King's Landing, commanded the Kingsguard, ate fancy food and drank the finest wines, lived in a palace, hunt only for fun, crippled ten-year-old boys, fucked his twin sister...

To be honest, Marc was happy to be a Stormbay. Who knows what life he would have lived in the capitol.

Winter was coming, he knew it. He felt it.


End file.
